Low on the Go!

chow mein and green tea.

I remember. It was a silver thermos--the kind you heat up, then put food in, then seal to keep the food warm. Inside: the previous night's chow mein (fried noodles). They were a golden yellow, and green leaves of bok choy and slivers of char siu (or was it chicken?) peeked out from underneath them. Dessert was in a little tupperware container. Peeled lychees floating in their juice. I always liked my lunches. I secretly thought they were better than the soggy peanut butter and jelly sandwiches my friends would pull out from their lunch boxes.

It was grade four. A voice amongst the throng of students yelled out, "EEEW, Lydia eats worms and eyeballs for lunch."

That was the day I started hating my culture. I asked my Mom to pack me a sandwich for lunch the next morning.

Somewhere along the way, ever since then, I've held a bizarre resentment for Chinese people. Maybe it's because I never felt Chinese enough to integrate with the culture, but my skin dictates that I am too asian to fit in with "white" culture. Maybe it's because I never had the brand names to wear like my Cantonese friends did. Maybe it's because I hated the "tsk-ing" and looks of disapproval when I'd go over to their houses and their parents learned that I didn't speak Cantonese.

In the past while, I've come to love my culture. Partly. There are so many good things, that I really enjoy. I enjoy feeling at home in a chinese supermarket, or sitting and stretching noodles out to prepare them to boil. I enjoy sitting with a bowl of noodles and slurping them up, with my chopsticks guiding them into my mouth. I enjoy the slurping sound. I enjoy (though I make fun of it a lot) the culture of honour and yet, I hate it at the same time. I love sitting with a bowl of red bean ice cream and thinking about how great it is that even in Montreal, my people are here and have the opportunity to freely hear the gospel. (hmm, a lot of this revolves around food.) I love the close-knitted idea of family and community.

As an only child and a chinese child, I know that the responsibility for caring for my parents will fall on my shoulders someday. I once talked with a caucasian friend of mine, and he said he wouldn't even think of caring for his parents when they're old. He sees nothing wrong with a nursing home, and doesn't think that much about supporting them financially. While I know that not all of my Caucasian friends think this way, a vast majority of them do. I can't imagine thinking like that. It's not as though one way is better than the other. At least, that's what I ought to say. So maybe it's the confucianism talking, but I really can't imagine ever sending my parents to a nursing home, unless that home could provide better medical care than I could.

I think about these things a lot. I think about what will happen when my parents are old. What will happen when they can no longer feed themselves. What will happen when they die. I think I will be very lonely. I worry more than I think I do, and I rarely let it show.

My dad has accepted a job in Calgary. I'm apprehensive about this. I don't think it's a good move and I worry a lot. Mostly about my mum. I feel as though she will be feeling very lonely and very alone for the next while, and I wish I could be there to be with her. I know my dad can take care of himself, and that this is probably a good move for him. I don't want his life to be stagnant.

And it's times like this when I wonder how I can rectify how I was raised and the principles of taking care of my family, with my present reality of being almost 4000 kilometers away. It is one thing to embrace my culture, and make a decision to go to a Chinese grocery store so that I can make chow mein and eat green tea ice cream. It is another thing to think about how I can honour my parents and ensure that they are okay when I live so very far away. I wonder how the teaching of letting the dead bury their own dead applies to my life, and the teaching to honour my parents concurrently puzzles me.

I think I am more Chinese in thinking than I realize.

Today, I came home from church. I stretched some noodles and fried them till they were a golden brown. Green bok choy leaves and slivers of meat peeked out from underneath. As I ate, I remembered.